Don't Tell Leo
by Donny's Boy
Summary: A series of ficlets and drabbles, all set pre-2007 movie. These are the stories they have silently agreed not to tell. Warnings inside.
1. Debt

**_Don't Tell Leo_**

by Donny's Boy

--

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot relating to the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.

Warnings: Lots. Lots of language, lots of violence, and moderate sex. References to incest, alcohol, and goodness knows what else.

Author's Notes: This is a series of ficlets, set pre-2007 movie. Although any ficlet can be read alone, they're all interrelated.

--

_"What on earth happened to you guys?"_

_The three of them exchange furtive looks._

_"Dunno what you mean," drawls Raph casually, one eye-ridge lifted high in eloquent scorn for the question._

_Leonardo scowls. "Yes. You do. Now tell me."_

_"Well. Uh. You see? Thing is, you were gone a long time, and--" Michelangelo shuts up the moment that Don's elbow jabs into his side, none too gently._

_"Fine. Be like that." Leo sighs and turns away. "It's nice to see you all grew up and became so mature during the time I was gone."_

_It's only after Leo's long gone that Raph mutters, "Ha. If you only knew the half of it, Leo."_

_Donatello snorts at that and, miraculously, even cracks a smile._

--

**"Debt"**

As the heavy, steel-toed boot smashed into his jaw, Raphael found himself reconsidering his life decisions. Certainly this was not where he would _like _to be: broken, beaten, lying in a grimy alley surrounded by thugs. Certainly something had gone horribly, horribly awry.

Some blood--from God knew how many broken teeth--dripped down his throat, and he gagged. Turning his head to the side, he spit out what he could.

"Somebody take off that fuckin' ridiculous helmet."

Oh, hell no.

Struggling to at least get up onto his hands and knees, Raph tried to crawl away. A swift kick to his ribs changed that plan, though. With a graceless thud, he fell back to the wet pavement. He would have cursed, had his mouth not hurt so badly.

"Ain't so tough now." From somewhere above and to the right of him came a cackle. "Is you, Nightwatcher?"

Walked right into it. Right smack dab into a trap. Followed two low-lifes into the alley, where at least thirty of these goons got the drop on him. He'd let the thrill of the chase go to his head and affect his judgment.

The worst part, though, was the fact that if he died tonight, his death would make him look stupider than he was. He wasn't this stupid. He really wasn't. Usually. Also, the brutal murder of a large, mutant turtle was sure to get his family a whole lot of unwanted publicity.

He felt tugging. His helmet. Shit. Raph lifted his arms as high as he could and tried to bat away the hands that clawed at his helmet, trying to get it loose. His efforts were about as effective as a kitten trying to fight off a cougar.

After a final tug, he felt cool, lovely air on his face. _Shit_. He tried to open his eyes--the very least he could do was take a look around, see if he couldn't still outwit these goons and protect his clan--but his eyelids wouldn't cooperate.

Meanwhile, a long silence fell over the alley. "What ... what _is_ it?"

"I dunno, man. It's ... it's pretty freaky, though. Maybe we oughta--"

The rest of the man's sentence was cut off by a sharp, deep grunt.

All that Raph could make out clearly were bits and pieces. A groan here. A whistling noise there. Just enough to make him feel sure that a fight had broken out. A fight he wasn't part of.

Finally, he managed to force his eyes open. Which didn't do much good, because he still couldn't move his damn head. God, his _head_. His head felt like a ton of bricks. A throbbing, bleeding, exceedingly tender ton of bricks.

A dark, blurry shape appeared over him, no more than a silhouette against the street lamps. Raphael felt a gentle pressure against his neck. He blinked. It took him a few moments to realize what was going on--that someone was taking his pulse. He tried to take a deep breath, to clear his thoughts and gather some strength. He had to get out of here.

That was when he caught it. A very particular, very familiar scent.

Still groggy, with an aching jaw, Raph mumbled the first word that popped into his head: "Leo?"

Suddenly, the pressure on his neck was gone. The dark shape remained, however, in perfect stillness and perfect silence. Raphael knew his brother was staring at him. He couldn't see Leo's eyes, but he could _feel_ them. It was a little creepy.

And it was weird. Leo was supposed to be gone. Wasn't he? Raph couldn't remember. God, his head hurt.

After another beat, Leo broke off the stare and turned away. But just before he was completely outside Raph's field of vision, Raphael caught a glimpse of his brother's mask tails. Saw a flash of purple cloth.

For another ten minutes Raph laid there on the ground, breathing hard, trying and failing to process the evening's events. Then, shakily he pushed himself up onto his knees. The act of doing so almost made him vomit. But once he got himself steady enough that he was pretty sure he wouldn't fall over, he finally took a look around.

The alley looked like a damn slaughterhouse. Raphael gave in and puked. It hurt like a bitch.


	2. Touch

**"Touch"**

Like all truly, heinously terrible ideas, the depths of this particular idea's true terribleness had only been revealed _ex post facto_. Michelangelo reflected on this fundamental truth as he tried not to vomit.

Donatello kept on walking towards the kitchen without missing a beat. Maybe he didn't notice. No. He noticed. Did he notice? He _had_ to have noticed how he and Mike had accidentally brushed shoulders. Right?

Swaying, Michelangelo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He tried to fight it, but it was pointless. Against his will, a wave of memories slammed through his mind--visceral, clear, Las Vegas bright. Don's hands. Don's mouth. The strange, quiet sounds that Mike used to think were so funny.

_"It's just two guys havin' fun. Like they do in frat houses! I mean, how can you be against havin' fun, Donny?"_

It took him a minute or two to fight down the sudden, strong urge to bash in Don's head with the nearest large object. Instead, Mike silently watched his brother pour a glass of orange juice. It took him another few minutes to fight down the wave of nausea that resulted from fantasizing about bludgeoning your own brother.

_"I don't know, Mike ..."_

Don turned around, his face completely and carefully blank. "Thirsty? I could get you a glass."

"No, thanks."

Michelangelo desperately wanted Don to touch him. To touch him like he used to. A quick hug. A playful shove. A gentle, affectionate headrub. Don had always been the brother who touched him most frequently, and nowadays Mike felt his skin constantly itch, constantly crawl, with the aching need for physical contact.

But whenever Donatello got within three feet of him, Mike's body went into a cold sweat. Sometimes accompanied by dry heaves, other times by the blind and irrational desire to violently lash out. Today was apparently going to be a "lashing out" day. Those were always the worst.

_"Aw, c'mon. What's the worst that'll happen?"_

Donatello drained his juice, tilting back his head. Mike watched his brother's Adam's apple bob up and down with every gulp. It was disgusting. The way Don drank and ate--hurriedly, open-mouthed, like a starving jackal--it was disgusting. Don was disgusting.

No. No, that wasn't fair. It was Mike that was the problem; it was Mike that was sick in the head. Oh, God, was he ever. Sick in the stomach, too, now that he thought about it.

_"I ... I guess you have a point, Mikey. If we don't like it, we just won't try it again. Right?"  
_

After Don finished washing his glass, he turned to head back out the same way he'd come in. Mike stood frozen in place. His heart thudded weakly in his ears as Don approached. His mind raced, as he tried to decide what to do. To decide what he wanted to do. But then Don was there, within arm's reach, and--_oh, God--please--oh, please don't_--Don paused.

He reached out, his hand hovering over Michelangelo's shoulder. Mike grit his teeth and managed to contain most of his shudder. But not all of it.

Donatello took back his hand. Without comment, he continued on to the computer nook.  
_  
"Right! Exactly. See, bro? I knew you'd come around to appreciate my brilliance."_


	3. Blood

**"Blood"**

It is only with the utmost self-restraint, the kind requiring he tap into deep reserves he hadn't even known he possessed, that he refrains from ripping off the man's balls with his bare teeth.

"I _know_," he whispers, and his voice is quiet and ragged from the effort of holding back his rage. He gives the man a rough shake. "I know what you been doin' to that little girl."

_"I have done nothing to her." The man lies with barely a moment's pause. One eyebrow lifts in mocking refutation. "You are mistaken."_

_He lifts his lip in a snarl. It is tempting--so very tempting--to tighten his grip, to dig in his fingers until the man's hateful, lying throat snaps right in two. But he's better than that. He's no monster. "I'm mistaken, am I?" he responds coolly. "Well, we'll just see what the police have to say about that."_

"Jail? Are you smokin' something?" The man laughs, a nasty a sound as one might ever wish to hear. "My uncle Tony's on the squad. You got nothin' on me, and we both know it."

That gives him pause. Fucking cops. He knows all too well how useless they can be. If they _were _worth anything, he wouldn't be where he is right this moment--standing on a dirty rooftop, in the dead of the night, holding some lowlife piece of scum over the edge. So, if this creep's telling the truth, if he really does have a relative on the force ...

Well, shit. Thoughtfully he frowns.

_Frowning, he tries to think of a good back-up plan. He should have known. He should have known a man this rich would have bought off the head of police. Hesitating a bit, he lets the man go and gazes out at the village beyond, its endless rows of small houses blazing a fiery orange in the light of a setting sun.  
__  
The man chuckles softly. "As I said, sir ... you are mistaken. Do not worry. We can both forget this ever happened."_

"We both know you ain't gonna drop me." Still this punkass is running his big fat mouth, and suddenly his reservoir of patience runs dry--and that, as they say, is that.

He throws the man back onto the roof and whips out a sai. "You're right," he replies, smiling behind the safety of his helmet. "I ain't gonna drop ya."

_The man's eyes go wide as the blade pierces his trachea, and his smooth, svelte laughter abruptly cuts off. Sinking to his knees, the man stares up mutely, blinking, disbelieving.  
__  
He spits right in the man's shocked face._

The man's body gives a final twitch before going still. Scowling down at the motionless form, he aims a savage kick at the man's groin. Then another. And another.

_He wipes off his still-dripping sword. Dragging the corpse behind him, he strings it up from a tree near town--but not too near town, of course--where it will serve admirably well as a lesson. And a warning._

He looks down  
_at his hands,  
_still covered  
_in human blood,  
_wet and warm  
_in the cool night air._

"I can't go home," he mutters, peeling off his gloves in disgust. "Not lookin' like this."

_"I have to go home," he whispers, shutting his eyes_. _"I can't live like this."_


	4. Rites

**"Rites"**

Donatello had never been one for ritual. Until the day he'd become de facto leader, he'd simply shrugged it off as yet another of those spiritual things that made Leonardo their father's favorite. But things had changed. He had changed.

The ritual, however, did not change. Very carefully, very methodically, he counted out the pills as he arranged them on his work table. Each perfectly and equitably distanced from all the others, in long rows, marching down the table like silent soldiers.

_God, Raph, why do you have to make everything so damned hard all the time?_ Donatello nudged a stray pill with his fingertip. He nodded slightly, unconsciously, as soon as it was in line with its companions. _It wasn't even my idea, Mike. Stop punishing me for your mistakes!_ After giving the bottle a shake and finding it empty, Don sighed softly and reached for the third bottle. _I am drowning, Sensei. I am drowning, and you don't even care. I don't think you even see._ Don shook out a handful more pills.

Sleeping pills. Enough to send a herd of horses into dream land for a good, long time. He'd first procured the drugs simply to combat all those late nights spent on the IT help line, with only caffeine pills and coffee to comfort him. After finishing his shift, a jittery and irritable Don required some serious downers just to get a little rest. It wasn't healthy--of _course _he knew it wasn't healthy--but it was necessary. They needed the money, after all.

Of course it was necessary.

Donatello finished laying out the last bottle of pills and stood up, surveying his handiwork with a small, pleased smile. _And fuck you, Leo. I hope you die in that godforsaken jungle._ He poured out a glass of water and set it down on the desk as well. Then he sat back down on his stool. Exactly three hundred pills--no more, no less--sat before him, perfect, undisturbed, like tiny gravestones.

Reaching forward, he picked up the nearest pill and held it up, staring hard. He swallowed, his saliva thick and sickly sweet in his mouth. With a small shake of the head, he dropped the pill back into one of the empty bottles, and it landed in the bottom of the plastic container with a muted _clink_. He sighed again. _Come back to us, Leo. Please. I don't care why you've been gone, just that you come home._ Slowly, with the same painstaking care he'd laid out all the pills, he began placing them back in the bottle. _Help me, Sensei. Help us._ He screwed the cap back on and then picked up the second empty bottle. _Mikey, I'm sorry. I am so sorry. You have no idea._

Don paused, just a moment, upon reaching the last pill. _Raph ..._ He shut his eyes. _Oh, Raph ... _But he was almost finished. He had to finish. Forcing his eyes open again, he placed the last pill back in its bottle and replaced the cap, giving it a vicious twist while telling himself it was only to make sure the bottle was tightly closed. He made his way over to the bed and laid down.

It was going to be a long, hard night without the pills. He didn't feel sleepy. Not even a little.

And as he laid there, counting the cracks in the ceiling, he wondered if his nightly bedtime ritual was one of the few things keeping him lucid or just another of the many things driving him slowly insane.


End file.
